Slipping Away
by Sherlockedmyheart
Summary: Whilst war rages across Europe, the world's only consulting detective suffers, quiet and forgotten, alone in the beautiful Sussex countryside, patiently waiting for his doctor to return one last time.
1. Slipping Away

**Slipping Away**

**London**

An elderly doctor sat on a park bench in Leicester Square, on a beautiful summers day in the middle of August and watched as wave after wave of soldiers march through the city; all of them young, most inexperienced and a few much younger than they looked.

It was the first time he'd had a moment to himself since the blasted war had begun. He'd asked by old colleagues to help train boys into becoming surgeons and impromptu doctors. He had, of course, said yes in a heartbeat (if only he were fifty years younger he would've joined the army himself) as he was willing to anything that his King and country asked of him.

But alas, he had already served his country decades ago. He shifted slightly on the bench, both his leg and his shoulder complained bitterly. He thought back to the time when he'd accumulated these wounds. It felt like a lifetime ago.

However, he did not have time to dwell on the past long as a young girl, no older than six, climbed onto his good leg.

"Papa! Dada will be coming soon! I can see his regiment!" She exclaimed happily. Her face was slightly flushed red as she'd been running alongside the parade until she met her grandfather.

He held the young girl close, her blonde curls had once again managed to escape from her bonnet and tickled his neck as she laid her head on his chest. She sucked her thumb excitedly, waiting for her father to make his long awaited appearance.

Just as she said, moments later, his regiment came marching round the corner. She jumped off her grandfather's lap and held his hand supportively as he used the walking stick beside him to help him stand. He watched, his chest swelling with pride, as his eldest son marched down the street. He scooped the little girl into his arms, and rested on her on hip so that she could see her father over the heads of the strangers.

She cheered happily, along with everyone else in the crowd. But it was when her father disappeared that her cheers of happiness turned to tears. She sobbed into her grandfather's good shoulder, whimpering something about not wanting her dada to go. The old doctor ignored the protests his leg made as his comforted his only granddaughter. His used his handkerchief to wipe away the tears and tried, just like any grandfather, to make her smile.

Those teary blue eyes looked questioningly up at him.

"When's dada coming home?"

He kissed her forehead gently. "Do not fret my little precious...it'll all be over by Christmas."

**Sussex**

_He knew his mind was slipping. There was simply no escaping from the fact that he had known for some considerable time. He could feel it falling, piece by piece, as the days wore painfully on. The so called trained nurses offered no real support; they were just there to make sure he never hurt himself too badly._

_But he could never bring himself to hate them. They were only worried about their fiancées. When they weren't treating other patients, he'd hear them talking about a so called 'war'. _

_He scoffed at the very idea. There was no way his brother would let this country go to war. It was simply impossibly, Mycroft would never endanger the lives of so many Britons._

_Impossible…simply…impossible…_

_But those nurses still carried on with their maddening chatter, trying to comfort everyone by saying 'it will all be over by Christmas'. But, he just smiled politely and nodded, humouring the poor young girls. _

_He was sure he was going to have to have a word with Mycroft about all these silly young women trying to frightening everyone by creating some kind of war. _

_It was preposterous…utterly, sickening. _

_There were times when he'd calm his temperament enough to consider all the facts- the newspaper headlines, the growing number of soldiers and some of the wards were being 'renovated' as they called it. It considered that what they were saying could possibly be true. _

_But he'd never consider it for too long because he'd soon forget what he was thinking about._


	2. The Days of Murder and Glory

**The Days of Murder and Glory**

Courage. Courage was what he needed. He was told he possessed it, he was told he possessed it greatly but that did not quell the fact that he did not have enough courage to visit his friend. His closest friend.

His friend needed him to be the strong, the resilient doctor, the Doctor Watson he once was. But times had changed and so had he, even if Holmes didn't –no, _couldn't _realise it. He cherished those memories he'd poured so openly into the leather bound books that lay on his shelf but he just couldn't bring himself to accept that they had ended; and that the man who he shared those adventures with was ending too, and in such a malicious way.

He never cared much for religion. He had seen too many lives stolen away and too much brutality in life to trust in religion. But he prayed, he prayed in the beginning for the truth about Holmes' illness not to be true. He prayed that Holmes would be ignorant to it. He prayed for Holmes would be well looked after. And he prayed for his own pain to stop.

But no one listened – or no one cared, because his prayers were left unanswered, leaving a bitterness in the good Doctor's mouth and repulsion in his heart for having opened up to something that clearly did not care.

But then the war had broken out. And suddenly all his cares revolved around keeping his family together, whilst three of his five children and four of his eight grandchildren went to war, he spent very many long nights worrying about their safety and trying to comfort all those who remained that it would surely end by Christmas.

He read about incompetent politicians who had brought this war down on all their heads and couldn't help but think that if Mycroft were still alive, he'd never have let this war begun. Still, there wasn't much point dabbling with 'ifs'; Mycroft was not here anymore, God rest his soul, and they had all been plunged into war.

He sat in his study, surrounded by ghosts of the past that not only took the form of books but managed to manifest themselves in everything the doctor saw. The tea he drank was almost the complete replica of the tea Mrs. Hudson used to serve at breakfast.

The oak desk and chair was from his old practise, the very one he was sat at when Holmes undisguised himself after his three year absence. Even his watch was a birthday present from Mycroft Holmes one year.

Everything seemed to be a ghastly reminder of what was gone…and what he was about to lose.

The rain rapped gently on the window; the sound was oddly comforting as it reminded him of his childhood, before his schooling, when he'd be tucked up safe in bed and listen to the rain before falling asleep. They were safe times, no one depended on him, no one died and no one left him. It was the time before discovered how very cruel life could be.

Watson sadly glanced through all the photographs situated on his desk. Some were of his children in various stages of their adolescence whilst the others were of his grandchildren, all smiling and with the kind of innocence that only children can have.

But there was one photograph missing. One that, for months the doctor could not bring himself to look at let alone handle. Whether it was a sense of duty or guilt, he did not know, but something possessed his hand to reach for the top draw and search for its contents.

He felt his heart strings pull desperately as soon as his fingers wrapped around the wooden frame. He had never begged for anything in his life, but the thought of seeing that face once more made his heart beg his head desperately to let the frame go.

He couldn't look at it again. He just couldn't.

But there it was. The face of his friend, some forty years younger peered at him. Holmes stared at him through sparkling grey eyes, he was amused at something - perhaps it was because he'd said something outrageous to the photographer…still, Watson must have heard it too because his eyes shone as well.

Perhaps it was the absurdity of the situation that was the cause of Holmes' amusement and that Watson's enjoyment was down to actually succeeding in getting Holmes to have a photograph with him.

They were dressed smartly – of course they were! Mrs. Hudson would never have allowed them to go to the photographer's studio without looking their best. He laughed slightly when he recalled the way Mrs. Hudson's face turned to horror when she realised Holmes had been dressed as a beggar for weeks.

No, Holmes' eyes did not sparkle with amusement. They shone with mischief. Unmistakeable, undeniable, characteristic mischief.

A tear splashed onto the glass surface of the photograph. Once he had started he simply could not stop. His chest heaved with shame, bitterness and… (dare he even think it?) …love for the greatest man he'd ever known.

He did not love Holmes in the way a man loves a woman. He loved Holmes like the brother he never had. He admired Holmes even with all his faults. Even when he'd felt betrayed by Holmes' lack of trust during the three years he'd been 'dead' that had soon been replaced by the fact that Holmes had come back…and back to him.

Holmes had helped him in so many ways, he knew it would be a cliché but he was a broken man when he returned back from Afghanistan and Sherlock Holmes had given him a reason to live.

Sherlock Holmes; the drug addicted, the dysfunctional, the most hormonal man he had ever met had befriended him and God knows there were times when Watson would've given anything not to be where he was but of all the things he regretted in his life, Holmes was not one of them.

"Those were the days, eh Holmes? As you once so perfectly put it; 'The Days of Murder and Glory.'" The doctor wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. Not bothering to fish out his handkerchief.

When the tears refused to stop he became annoyed. "Oh blast it Holmes! Look what you've reduced me to! Enough is enough."

The doctor sighed heavily. With shaking hands he poured himself a small amount of whiskey. The glass stayed poised at his lips as he ran his thumb gently over the photograph.

"I'm sorry…" He whispered. "I'm sorry, Holmes but I can't – I just can't." He hoped that his pathetic excuse for an apology would redeem him. Of course it didn't. It just made the burning ache in his chest swell until it felt as if he couldn't breathe.

What Watson could not bring himself to do was visit Holmes. He couldn't bring himself to admit that when he'd visit Holmes it would be his last time. And that the Holmes he would meet would not be _his _Holmes.

All he was putting off was saying goodbye to the ghost of the man he once knew.

His Holmes was already long gone.

* * *

><p><em>He didn't know why his wrists hurt like they did. <em>

_It wasn't his Rheumatism; it wasn't that sort of pain. _

_Oh well, no matter really. _

_When Watson arrived he'd talk to him about it._

_What was strange though, was the fact that he couldn't seem to rise out of his bed. _

_It felt as if something was holding him down…muscle weakness perhaps?_

_Tiredness, even?_

_His bed was situated right opposite the bookcases that lined the wall. _

_From his position in the bed he could see the title of nearly every book. _

_Even with age his eyesight still hadn't gone…that was about the only thing that refused to give up on him. _

_The leather bound volumes bore titles of stories he felt he should remember._

_He knew they should mean something to him. _

_But it was the damn fog. _

_The fog that persisted on staying and clouding his thought so that he couldn't reach the answer he was looking for. _

_Occasionally the fog would clear…and he'd see people. _

_People who once, long ago, meant something to him. _

_Nameless faces from long forgotten cases. _

_Sometimes he'd even hear their voices…_

_He'd hear Mrs. Hudson shout at him. She'd scold him for some minor detail, again, and then comment on his appearance, telling him he looked more and more skeletal by the day._

_He'd insist she stay, just for a moment longer. But every time she would shake her head. She had duties to attend to and they certainly wouldn't attained themselves._

_But before she'd go, she'd ask if Watson had visited._

_Holmes would shrug as if he didn't care but kept silent as he simply didn't want to say the answer._

_No. _

_Watson hadn't visited yet._

_Mrs. Hudson, dear, Mrs. Hudson would shake her head and sigh and say 'Don't worry dear, he'll visit soon. He wouldn't not.'_

_Then she'd take her leave._

_Holmes always felt a pain in his chest every time someone would leave. _

_Didn't they know how isolated this damn place was?_

_The visits he dreaded the most were the ones from Mycroft. _

_Holmes would rant for hours whist Mycroft just sat opposite him and smiled. _

_Once Mycroft had had enough he would raise his hand to halt his brother. _

'_It is nice to know you had so much faith in me little brother, but I'm afraid I must depart.'_

'_Yes! A bloody well end this war while you're at it!'_

_At that, Mycroft would just smile. 'I'll do my very best.' He would assure before leaving. _

_He dreaded Mycroft's visits because they hurt the most when he left. _

_Why must he feel such a childish sense of abandonment?_

_Mycroft would never comment on Watson. _

_Because Mycroft knew the truth…he always knew the truth. _

_And the truth was that Watson had never visited him…not once. _


	3. Goodbye Brother, Dear

**Goodbye Brother, Dear**

Mycroft Holmes had passed away in the early spring of 1911. Holmes had summoned him at five o'clock to confirm what he and Holmes knew and to sign the certificate. Mycroft had passed away peacefully in his sleep; no pain and no suffering. Intrinsic cardiomyopathy, he heart just passed out. It would be the ideal death if one ever existed.

The mere concept of Mycroft Holmes being defeated by death of all things, absolutely terrifying. Even to Watson, Mycroft seemed too legendary for death. Yes, it was true that practically no one had ever heard of him but Mycroft stood at the very heart of the nation.

He was the man who strived behind the curtain, away from prying eyes. He was the driving force behind an entire empire and now it was quite literally crumbling to the ground. Losing Mycroft had damaged more people's lives than he even dared to imagine.

Holmes wasn't the only one who missed Mycroft; Watson had formed a friendship with the elder Holmes and Mycroft had once stated after quite a few brandies that he was Holmes' 'surrogate brother' when Mycroft wasn't around.

Mycroft's death had hurt Watson just as much as it did Holmes but Holmes had handled it much, much worse. Mycroft had been a constant support throughout the man's life, the only person Holmes truly depended on and trusted.

Mycroft was the only human who had a mind superior to his brother's. The poor man must have felt completely alone. It broke Watson's heart to even think about it.

Mycroft had died just before Holmes' condition became apparent to those left around him. Watson supposed he should've been grateful for that small mercy. It would've killed poor Mycroft to see his brother in such a state.

When Watson had the time and when he felt strong enough, he would occasionally visit Mycroft's grave. It was by no means grand; the man was understated even in death.

But it was peaceful and exceptionally beautiful in the late autumn because of the oak tree that Mycroft was buried next to. Watson saw no need to bring flowers as his grave was covered in beautiful golden and auburn leaves; it would be a shame to spoil them.

This was where Watson stood; underneath the oak tree at the foot of Mycroft's grave. Time was lost on the good doctor as he stood in respectful silence. He ran his fingers over Mycroft's name as the first of the autumn raindrops started to fall.

Watson wasn't the kind of man to talk to headstones but this time he made an exception.

"Take care of him, will you? Make sure he's..." He whispered quietly. "…coping."

He ran his hand over the top of the headstone fondly. "Goodbye old boy."

* * *

><p><em>Every human understands death as a natural process. What is not to understand? All creatures die, some are killed, other die due to their own accord. But do not confuse understanding with acceptance. <em>

_Sherlock Holmes did not accept his brother was gone._

_It was impossible and ridiculous. _

_Mycroft had been there when he came into existence on the 6th of January and he was going to be there when that existence ended. _

_That was the unspoken agreement the two brothers had and Mycroft certainly wasn't one to end a pact. _

_On the rare occasions that he wasn't forced into sleeping, he would dream of the day he lost Mycroft. _

_That horrendous nightmare that would make him wish that those senseless nurses had drugged him into a slumber… _

* * *

><p><em>He had been on a case, not a particularly trying one or one that was even worthy of recollecting but it proved to be a distraction none the least.<em>

_He'd settled into his chair, determined to relax and do nothing except watch the flames dance in the fireplace._

_It was at around nine o'clock that he received a telegram from none other than Mycroft, it read;_

_**Congratulations on solving yet another case.**_

_**Spare your poor arm and join me?**_

_**Mycroft**_

_As he read the short message he realised that he hadn't even thought of using cocaine…yet. _

_It troubled him slightly that his brother knew of his pattern better than he did but he discarded it from his thoughts; after all, it was Mycroft._

_He contemplated saying no but in all honesty he could use the company and he also wanted to talk Mycroft through some of the finer details that he'd missed. _

_He knew he was missing details more and more often these days. At first he put it down to drug use and lack of sleep but there was no denying it anymore…he was slipping. _

_It was a terrifying thought and he needed his brother to tell him that certainly wasn't the case. That there was no way a mind like his could be slipping and that he was just worrying about problems he'd created in his own head. _

_Yes, he needed Mycroft. _

_And with that he made his way to Mycroft's house. Once he arrived he was greeted by Tabitha, a maid that looked as if she was older than the two brothers' ages put together. _

_Tabitha's expression was as cold as the wind Holmes had just walked through but the slight glint in her eye meant she was relatively pleased to see him…if not slightly outraged by his intrusion at such an hour. _

'_Good evening, Mr. Holmes…and why do we have the pleasure of this visit?'_

'_Mycroft invited me, he's in his study?'_

'_Yes sir. I must ask you –'_

_Holmes didn't wait for the old maid to continue, instead he handed her his coat before bounded up the stairs to his brother's study. _

_He didn't bother knocking – Mycroft wasn't anything like their father, so there was no real need to, and so, safe in that knowledge he just walked in._

_Mycroft didn't look surprised at the intrusion in the slightest. _

'_You accepted my offer then?' The older brother smiled ever so slightly. _

_Mycroft was sat next to the fireplace, a glass of whiskey – no, brandy, in his hand as he absently waved for Sherlock to seat himself in the chair opposite him. _

_Sherlock did so. 'Of course. Pleased to see me, brother?' _

'_Unreservedly. Now tell me, did you decide to come before or after your injection?'_

_Holmes rolled up his sleeve and showed his brother an arm coated in old scars but none fresh. Mycroft's smile widened. _

'_Good. I'm glad. How was the case? I admit on paper it didn't seem terribly difficult…'_

'_It wasn't.' Holmes snorted. 'I merely took it so it would act as a distraction. I didn't know it would occupy my time for all of an hour.' _

_Mycroft laughed at his brother's bitter tone. Holmes took the moment of silence that preceded it to study his brother. Mycroft looked paler than usual, a lot paler. He'd lost weight, he was by no means thin but certainly wasn't as rounded as he used to be. _

_His expression was slightly more reserved that it usually was. _

'_Mycroft…was there any reason why you invited me?'_

'_Does there need to be a reason?' Mycroft said sadly. 'Can't I enjoy the company of my dear brother?' _

_Holmes shrank back in his chair when he realised. 'Mycroft what's wrong?' He didn't intend for his voice to sound as frightened as it did. _

_He watched as in a split second Mycroft's expression changed from one of sadness to concern for his brother. Sherlock hadn't seen that look since they were children. _

'_Sherlock listen to me, I have developed some problems, but I have some of the best doctors in the country at my call and –'_

'_Doctors can do so much, Mycroft.' He snapped. 'You and I both know that. Doctors can't do very much if there isn't a cure. Now, what is wrong?' _

'_As much as I am loathe to admit this, it is nothing that dieting and exercise won't cure.' _

'_That is all?' Holmes eyed him distrustfully._

'_That is all, I promise you. Now for the sake of my health, stop berating me.' Mycroft said with a smile, which, after a couple of seconds Holmes joined him._

'_Now, tell me Sherlock, would my assumption be correct if I said that it was the youngest son who posed as the spectre?' _

'_As I said…it was hardly a trying case.'_

'_And yet I solved it in less than twenty seconds…an hour, Sherlock?' He teased._

'_I wanted to waste as much time as possible.' He huffed. _

'_Of course.'_

'_I did!' _

'_I never disputed that fact.'_

'_You can be rather infuriating sometimes, Mycroft.'_

'_I was taught by an infuriating younger sibling.'_

_Holmes' laugh echoed around the rapidly darkening room. 'Touché, brother, touché.' _

_Holmes watches as Mycroft stifles a yawn and grins. 'Tired already, Mycroft? I've only just arrived.'_

'_Yes, that may be but you treat this house much like your own. You know where the guest bedroom is. Don't be long, Sherlock. You need to sleep as much as I do.' Mycroft said as he slowly rose from his chair. He clasped his brother's hand and held it tightly. 'Goodnight, Sherlock.'_

_Mycroft was never sentimental unless something had upset him greatly. Sherlock didn't ask, he was too afraid of the answer. _

* * *

><p><em>He would try to wake. <em>

_He would beg himself to wake up. _

_But his brilliant mind never allowed him that small mercy._

_He had to watch it to the very end._

* * *

><p><em>Holmes did take his brother's advice and headed towards the guest bedroom.<em>

_He tried to sleep but problems regarding the case persisted on staying._

_He decided to visit his brother, he wouldn't disturb Mycroft, after all, the man was strangely fond of sleeping but he just needed to be in his presence. _

_Mycroft's room was merely a few steps down the hallway from where the guest bedroom was situated, and as stealthily as he could possibly manage, he silently padded his way down the hallway to his brother's room._

_His hand closed around the door handle and pushed the door open gently. _

_There was silence. Mycroft was lying in the bed, Holmes could see his brother's form but there was absolute silence. _

'_Mycroft? Mycroft, wake up. Mycroft.' _

_Uncaring about making any noise, Holmes moved to his brother's side. _

'_Mycroft?' He touched his brother's arm; Mycroft's hand fell limply off the bed. _

_In a flash, Holmes switched the lights on and saw the frightening stillness of his brother. Holmes grasped Mycroft's wrist and found nothing…_

'_Tabitha! Tabitha!' Holmes practically screamed. _

_Moments later, quick footsteps of the maid echoed down the hall. She burst into the room and looked as if she was about to faint in Holmes hadn't of grabbed her by the shoulders._

'_Tabitha, go to Doctor Watson's house. Bring him personally. Tell him, tell him I need him. Go! Go!' _

_Tabitha didn't need to be told twice, she disappeared in seconds. _

_Holmes shut the door behind her and leant his back against it as he stared at Mycroft's body like a frightened child. _

_The tear streamed down his face, he couldn't stop them, he covered his mouth with a shaking hand in order not to scream or be sick. He couldn't decide. _

_He stumbled towards the bed and knelt next to it._

_He grabbed Mycroft's hand and held it in his, tears streaming down his face and onto the cold hand. He begged for Mycroft to wake as he cried into the bed sheets._

'_Please…je vous en prie…don't leave me, please…" As he sobbed pitifully he almost didn't register the nervous hand placed on his shoulder._

_Then there was Watson, standing over him, watching him through tear stained eyes._

'_I'm so sorry, Holmes…' _

* * *

><p><em>Slowly, his vision swam back into view; t<em>_he room, the books, the quilt sheets tucked tightly around him, the sunlight streaming through the tiny gap in the curtain._

_Sobs racked through his entire body as he fought the urge to cry again._

'_That dream again, Sherlock? I suppose if nothing, I must praise your consistency.'_

'_Mycroft…?' _

'_I am right here, mon frère.' And indeed Mycroft was. He was sat in a chair next to Holmes' bed, looking as smug and overweight as Sherlock remembered him._

'_The dream…the…it was so…so very real…'_

'_Dreams often are, Sherlock. Dreams themselves are hallucinogens caused by DMT. We dream what we want to see.'_

'_What are you talking about? I didn't want to see you die!'_

'_I'm not talking about the dream, Sherlock. No. Don't speak. You've tired yourself out again and you need to sleep. This time I promise you won't dream. You need to build up your strength for when Doctor Watson arrives.'_

'_He's never going to arrive.' Holmes whispered bitterly._

'_Don't talk nonsense, Sherlock. You and I both know that the good doctor simply wouldn't leave you here. Now, I must be away. Goodbye Sherlock.'_

_Knowing that asking his brother to stay would be pointless, Holmes sighed before forcing his voice to keep steady. _

_'Goodbye brother, dear.'_


	4. An Inspector Calls

**An Inspector Calls**

London has always and always will be rife with disease. From the plague in the 16th century to Cholera in the 19th century, currently the disease that roused Doctor Watson from his sleep and sent him to all parts of the city was Influenza.

Influenza; a truly abhorrent disease that had wiped out thousands and threatened to kill thousands more. He himself had been called out of retirement because of the loss of so many doctors; he'd even inherited his old practise back.

And so, the good doctor persisted, combating the disease one life at a time. He could no more come up with a cure than those great scientists who slaved away but he could do his best…and make them as comfortable as possible.

After a particularly harrowing case regarding a young widower whose youngest child had succumb to the disease, Watson returned to his practise, thoroughly drenched and thoroughly down heartened.

He hung his soggy coat up and stood for a few moments as the rain drops trickled down from his coat and onto the floor. He sighed, feeling as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. The cough of a child from his waiting room brought him back to reality.

He ran his fingers through his damp hair before straightening himself up to his full height and walking in the waiting room, a pleasant and reassuring smile set into his features.

"Absolutely frightful weather and it does not seem to be willing to let up any time soon, either." He mainly directed his speech at Alice, but he smiled at a few patients scattered around the room.

"Aye, Doctor." Alice's thick Scottish Highland accent reverberated around the walls. "Four of your patients have cancelled Doctor and three have not arrived yet."

"Ah, very well…well, who is next on the list…Mrs. Hardwicke? Yes, please follow me. Tell me, how is your ankle?"

"Oh, Doctor Watson I swear it has swollen twice its size since this my last visit!"

Ever the gentleman, Watson offered his arm for the struggling Mrs. Hardwicke and the two walked slowly to his consultation room.

"Oh dear, that's sounds very unpleasant, thank goodness you made an appointment as soon as you did."

After dealing with Mrs. Hardwicke's swollen foot and many hours of toiling through patient after patient, the aged doctor sank back into his chair, just after he had bid a fond farewell to charming a mother-to-be.

He rubbed his forehead slowly and decided to permit himself five minutes rest before locking up his surgery for the night. With a heavy sigh he rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and let his head rest in his hand.

The increasingly vicious brightness of the electric lighting hurt his tired eyes. He closed them, reassuring himself that he most certainly would not fall asleep…

He awoke with a violent start. His head flew from up from his hand and his eyes were suddenly wide open at the sound of a heavy knock on the door. He cleared his throat, not before picking up his pen and started to scribble nonsensical notes.

"Um…yes? Come in!"

Alice entered with a non-nonsense yet knowing expression on her face. "There's an Inspector calling for you, Doctor."

"Inspector? What Inspector, Alice? Did he give you his card?"

"There was no need, Doctor. It's Detective Inspector Lestrade."

For a minute, and only a brief one, Watson's half asleep mind envisioned the sparkling dark eyed, lean, sly-looking Lestrade with his infamous bulldog tenacity and unapologetic working class vocabulary. The man that had seen the end of many more cases than Watson cared to admit.

But just as quickly as the thought occurred to him, he dispelled it; Lestrade was dead.

He had died only a couple of weeks previously, struck down by the God-awful curse of Influenza in the blink of an eye. Watson had attended his funeral with a heavy heart and an even heavier conscience.

There was nothing he personally could have done, they had not even consulted him as a doctor, instead they had quite rightly gone to their own family doctor but the thought that he could have done something, anything was still there.

Even to this day it hung bitterly over his head; another friend he could not save.

There was only one man Watson knew Alice could have been referring to and that was Lestrade's son, Gregory.

"Then please show him in!" He said without hesitation. Alice nodded briefly before escorting Lestrade the younger to the doctor's consulting room.

In the short amount of time he was permitted, Watson tried to make his desk look as presentable as possible. Moments later, Alice opened the door and showed Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade in.

Watson silently marvelled at how the young Gregory was the image of his father, apart from his pale blue eyes which was a characteristic he inherited from his dear mother.

Gregory wore a coat that looked like it hadn't seen a wash in a good while. He was lacking his hat and scarf and looked ridiculously tired, making him look twenty years older than his thirty years.

"Gregory, my boy!" Watson rose, ignoring the alarming amount of cricks in his back and embraced the younger man. "Why it is so good to see you again! My dear boy! Sit, sit, please, sit down! Alice? Could you fetch us some tea, please? Excellent, thank you."

There was a genuine smile on Gregory's face as he took a chair opposite Watson.

"Good evening, Uncle John. Please allow me to apologise for the bad timing of my visit, I'm sure you've had quite a tiring day."

"No, no! No need to apologise! You know my door is always open to you no matter the time of the day."

As much as Gregory mirrored his father in appearance, he certainly didn't speak with the same rather unsophisticated vocabulary, Gregory had developed a much more refined speech pattern which was due to both Holmes' and Watson's successful efforts in convincing his father to send him to a Public School.

Gregory blushed ever-so-slightly and looked as if he was about to speak when Alice knocked the door once more.

"Come in!"

She opened the door with remarkable ease and grace considering she was carrying a tray and set the tray down in between the two men.

"Thank you, Alice. I shall serve the tea for Gregory and I. You may go home if you wish."

"Thank you, Doctor. I shall see you tomorrow. Good night gentlemen."

"Good night, Alice."

"Good night." Gregory nodded politely.

When Alice left, Watson began pouring tea for them both.

"How is your dear mother? And, if not more importantly, how are you?"

Gregory smiled sadly as he took the cup out of Watson's hands.

"Mama is…" He sighed and all of a sudden, Gregory looked like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. "She is grieving like the rest of us but…she's suffering…she's currently gone to stay with my aunt in Suffolk but nothing can hide the fact that the joy has all but disappeared from her eyes."

"Grieving is a horrendous business, Gregory, especially when you have to go through it alone. Please understand that you're mere weeks into a process that can take years…your father was a one of the most decent and bravest men I've had the pleasure of knowing. He's raised you to be fine young man and a credit to the police force. No man could feel a fraction of the pride he felt for you."

The mask of indifference he had previously worn slipped away at the brutal honesty of his Uncle John's words and for the first time in years, Watson saw the young boy who would sit and listen, alongside with Watson's own children, with unfaltering enthusiasm to Watson's first hand adventures.

And the boy looked horribly lost.

A knowing Watson offered his handkerchief before the tears started to fall, but as he did the last of the young man's resolve visibly crumbled to the carpet beneath their feet.

Gregory buried his head in his hands as his shoulders racked with heart-wrenching sobs. Watson stood up, fully prepared to comfort Gregory as if he was one of his own and placed a hand on his shoulder.

He didn't speak or try to comfort him with words as he knew the man would become embarrassed and it would cause him to bury his grief deeper. He merely stood there and allowed the boy to cry his heart out if needs be.

A good while later, Gregory slowly began to compose himself and Watson pushed the handkerchief into his hands and returned to his seat.

"I-I am terribly so-"

"No. You do not need to apologise nor would you ever to me, of all people. I am glad that you allowed yourself to grieve. I'm assuming this is the first time you've allowed yourself to grieve since your father's actual death?"

Gregory simply nodded, looking defeated.

"It is not healthy to be so detached for so long, Gregory and you are well aware of it." He gently reprimanded.

"Father would be ashamed if he saw my…outburst."

"Well seeing as your father is the very man to have caused such pain, I'd say he has no right to judge you on your outburst. If anyone should feel ashamed it is him."

Gregory looked slightly affronted by Watson's outburst but managed to hold him tongue as he knew what his Uncle John said was true.

"Now tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your coming to see me?"

Gregory sighed before taking a deep breath.

"It's about Mr. Holmes…"

* * *

><p>'<em>Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes?' A hand touched his gently, rousing him from his sleep. <em>

_His eyes flew open as soon as her hand came into contact with his. _

_He looked accusingly at the young woman, scowling._

"_What?"_

"_There's a gentleman here to see you. A Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard, believe it for not. His name's Lestrade. I think you know him." She winked and smiled._

_She actually _smiled_ at him._

_She must have been new. _

_But Holmes took no notice, he was too absorbed in trying to remember where on God's earth he'd heard that name before._

_The young woman saw the look of deep concentration on the Detective's face and smiled sympathetically._

"_You remember, Mr. Lestrade don't you, Mr. Holmes? He used to be a friend of yours. You solved crimes with him remember?"_

_Lestrade…_

_Dear God…_

_It couldn't be…_

_The nurse smiled joyfully when she saw the realisation dawn on the detective. "See! You do remember him! Come on, Mr. Holmes, let's get you up. We can't have you looking like this."_

_He felt the nurse pull him up and help him stand. He clutched onto the side of the bed whilst she slipped a dressing gown through his arms and on his shoulders. She tied the belt at the waist and led him to the chair. _

"_Now? You'll be good for Mr. Lestrade won't you? We don't want a repeat of last time a gentleman came to visit you, do we?" She spoke in a light-hearted tone yet there was no denying the underlying warning._

_Holmes kept his attention solely fixed on the floor._

_He wanted to reply, wanted to cut the woman to piece using only words, he wanted to watch her resolve dissipate in the blink of an eye and send her away, a mass of tears and incomprehensible sobs for the way she looked down at him, for the way she and the others belittled him and his intellect, daring to challenge years of genius and the outcome of cases older than their mothers. _

_But he didn't. _

_Because he knew what would happen if he did. _

_He knew the consequence would be severe, as it always was. _

_That was what he would remember in his dreams, since Mycroft left. He didn't remember their names, nor did he particularly want to, but he remembered their blows, their malicious comments and their sadistic grins. _

_And then he would wake up, sometimes he would cry, sometimes he would scream and sometimes he would just whimper in the darkness and then he would forget…forget where the bruises came from and who dealt them._

_Afterwards he would remember the hunger and wonder why. He would wait patiently for them to arrive with food. Sometimes he would wait hours, sometimes days. It would all depend on what he had done but he could never remember what._

_The young woman squeezed his arm, accidently touching a nasty bruise on his arm. He gasped through gritted teeth and growled. _

"_Now, now. We'll have none of that." She scolded him. _

_She turned on her heel and beckoned the young man in, fluttering her eyelashes at him. She took the young man's jacket and hung it up, along with his hat and scarf. Thankfully she left moments later. _

_The young man took a seat in the chair opposite from him, looking nervous and twitching which simply added to Holmes' annoyance._

"_For God's sake, if you're going to pace, pace. If not, sit still!" He snapped. _

_The young man froze, he looked petrified and relieved. "You-you recognise me?"_

"_Don't be idiotic, Lestrade. Of course I recognise you. I didn't expect to see you here so soon after your latest case, which I admit, you handled with…an unusual competence."_

_Lestrade smiled, looking a lot more relaxed than when he stepped into the room. "Thank you…that is one of the greatest compliments you could pay me."_

_Holmes waved it away. "I would not speak it unless it were true, Lestrade. You know that. Now, tell me…what put you on that man's particular trail?"_

_Lestrade leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, beginning to tell his tale. "Well…all the evidence pointed to Michael Thorngate, Beth Thorngate's older cousin but I knew something was amiss when…"_

_Holmes studied Lestrade whilst he talked._

_He looked different…why did he look different?_

"…_But it was when Beth's friend, Megan, said that William Tanner had been in India for a few years. It all fit, Michael Thorngate was Tanner's pupil and Tanner knew the family well…"_

_Wasn't his hair grey the last time Lestrade visited?_

_Wasn't Lestrade shorter?_

_Wasn't he a little more rounded?_

"…_And, after a good few days of interrogation, Tanner confessed. But…I am not actually here to talk about my career. I-uh…" Lestrade lowered his eyes to the floor, suddenly insecure. _

"_It is about my father…" He swallowed._

"_Yes, what about him?" Holmes sighed. It took everything for him not to roll his eyes._

"_He…he died." The younger man swallowed deeply, looking deeply upset._

_Holmes simply raised his eyebrow. "Well I should think so, Lestrade. That man has been dead for well over twenty years. Are you feeling alright?"_

_It took a few seconds for the younger man to absorb what Holmes had just said and it took another ten to realise what it meant. His face fell._

"_Do-do you recognise me? I mean do you actually know who I am?"_

_Holmes shook his head, in dramatic display despair. "Lestrade, don't be obtuse. Your ignorance shall only make a terrible impression on young Gregory. How is the boy, anyway?"_

_Lestrade gaped under the Detective's disapproving gaze. Eventually he found his voice. _

"_Uncle Holmes…_I am _Gregory."_

_Holmes stared at Lestrade for a ridiculously long time._

_Blue eyes._

_Blue eyes._

Blue eyes.

"_Gregory! Dear God, it is you! Ha! I hardly recognised you, my boy! How are you? Why just look at you…you're the image of your father…so you followed in your father's footsteps…I always knew you would. How is your father? I don't think I have seen him in years…Oh." _

_Then he remembered._

"_Oh…your father is dead." Holmes slumped back into his chair, a feeling desolation washing over him; steadily consuming him. "I am sorry...I considered him a close friend. When…when is the funeral?"_

_Gregory found something extremely interesting on the floor because that was where his gaze was fixed. Holmes had never felt more frustrated._

"_Damn it, Gregory, I am not an invalid! Look at me when I speak to you!" _

_Gregory's gaze lifted immediately, looking mildly affronted. "The funeral was two weeks ago. I asked the doctor's if you could attend or even if I could tell you but they denied me on the grounds that you were not stable. I apologise wholeheartedly for not informing you sooner but your current condition forbade it."_

_All the anger drained from Holmes' body, he slumped back into the back, all the energy drained from his body._

_Holmes looked at Gregory with fright. When he spoke, he was not the confident, self-assured man, Gregory knew, instead, his voice was small and almost inaudible. _

"_All my friends have died around me and I cannot even do them the decency of remembering them. I don't want to forget them. I don't want to forget anything. I can feel it," He tapped his head. "In here, slipping away. Falling through my finger tips and I am helpless to stop it. They leave me here; in the care of these…imbeciles and brutes…they know nothing of what I need. They don't see _me. _All they see is a feeble old man losing his mind but I am still here!" _

_Holmes voice rose in desperation, Gregory stared at him feebly. Holmes leaned over and grabbed the younger man's hand, clutching it for dear life. Tears ran down the older man's cheeks._

"_I am still here! I do not want to go this way. I have no dignity and they spare me none. This is not my home. I am miles away from friends and I have no family. Tell me-tell me of your Uncle John. You remember him? Yes? Of course you do. As do I! He is the only man I cannot forget because he will not see me."_

_Gregory opened his mouth to speak but the detective stopped him by holding up a hand. _

"_No. No, please do not interrupt." He choked out. "Hear me, since no one else will. I know he will not visit me. I know he does not want to see me in my…condition…but please, Gregory, will you convince him otherwise? I am here! I am here! T hey con not simply leave me here! I am still alive!" _

_Holmes began to shout in desperation to be heard. Gregory recoiled in his chair as if Holmes had hit him in the face. Holmes began to tear at the bandages around his wrist. Once they were off he showed Gregory the painfully seeping wounds. _

"_You see! Look! This is what they do. I do not deserve this. I do not want this! You cannot treat me this way!" Holmes shouted at the top of his lungs. _

_Gregory jumped out of his chair and held Holmes' wrists in an attempt to stop him from hurting himself. "Nurse!" He bellowed. "Nurse! I need assistance!"_

_Moments later, a nurse burst into the room followed by three male porters. Gregory stepped back as the burly porters took hold of Holmes' wrists. The younger man paled considerably when they all but threw the detective onto the floor. _

"_No! No!" Holmes struggled. "Get off from me! Get them away. Gregory! Gregory! Please get them off me." _

_Gregory felt his heart wrench in his chest when Holmes' cries for help devolved into whimpers. The Detective Inspector pulled his coat off the racket and ran out of the room, completely forgetting about his hat and scarf, because his sole intention was to escape this hell and to reach Uncle John as soon as possible. _


End file.
